


Confrontation

by demonrubberducky



Series: Reconciliation [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Spoilers, eventual ot4 endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonrubberducky/pseuds/demonrubberducky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan and Lagertha have awaited Ragnar's return. A new wife and son are not what they were expecting. Athelstan copes with loss, betrayal, and a shaken faith as he seeks to reconcile the two people he has come to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Messengers brought word of the war between King Horik and Jarl Borg to Kattegat. Athelstan asked Lagertha, after the first rumors arrived, if he should write to Ragnar about the plague. 

She shook her head. “No distractions. He will win, and then he will return to us,” she said.

She shamed him with her strength. Since the first night he’d sinned with her, he’d seen no more of her tears. The other survivors whispered that she must be made of stone. The fever had not touched her; she stood fiercely and guided Kattegat through the crisis and the recovery. Without Lagertha in charge, the village would have fallen into anarchy; she enforced order, stopped those spared by the sickness from plundering their weakened neighbors, and saw to it that every fever-orphan was taken in by some relative or friend. Athelstan wondered, in secret, if Ragnar would have led his people as his wife had. 

Still, Athelstan longed to write to Ragnar, call him home from his war to attend to his grieving wife and to pray for the soul of his daughter. The Norseman had tried to sacrifice him, yes, but he still craved his presence. He knew that made him weak. Lagertha, so much more resilient than he, told him that Ragnar would come when his work was done.

“Until then, we will make Kattegat strong again.”

As a slave on Ragnar’s farm, Athelstan had dabbled in the different duties associated with farming and caring for livestock. Now, he became a master of them. Wherever a household was short a hand, he went, learning his tasks along the way. 

The first few days, when he was still fighting against the grasps of the sickness and the loss, were hardest. After a month had passed, then another, he realized that the exhaustion he felt each night was not from having done labor, but from the sheer amount of it. 

“At least now you won’t blow away in the wind, priest,” Lagertha said, eyeing his nakedness one night. She pulled him down on top of her. “Still a twig compared to my husband, but at least now your bones do not poke me so.” And then, a moment later as she shifted, “Except one, it seems.”  
The slight smile on her lips helped assuage the guilt Athelstan felt rush upon him. 

He had sinned with his master’s wife almost nightly since the fever had left Kattegat. He hated that he did not hate the act. Lagertha, even in her misery, knew how to generate pleasure Athelstan had never even imagined existed. 

Athelstan wished he could stop himself from coming to her chambers, but once again, he was weak. His fumbling attempts to pleasure her brought her some comfort, it seemed, and the smiles he saw as she teased him for his inexperience were the only ones he’d seen on her face since before she’d lost her unborn child. 

He had not lied to his lady when he had told her he found freedom and honor in service. His faith lay in shambles, his pagan protector had brought him to an altar to slaughter, and the child he had grown to love as a little sister had died long before her time. His only happiness came when he allowed Lagertha to rule him, when he could forget about himself and focus on serving someone greater than himself. 

It was a strange bond they two had formed. Lagertha had showed Athelstan the tears she hid from the world, and Athelstan had forsaken his vows to serve her so that she would not cry again.  
………………  
Each morning, before breaking his fast, Athelstan lit a candle for Gyda. Night and day, he prayed for her soul. Mostly, he prayed she would enter Valhalla, to join her ancestors and await the rest of her family; on days when the Norsemen had reminded Athelstan how brutal and foreign they could be, though, he prayed that God would grant her pure soul salvation and that she would make her way through the gates of Heaven. He thought she would be happy there, clad in white as a Bride of Christ, surrounded by others who shared her gentleness. 

Athelstan could not be sure where the girl’s soul went, but he comforted himself knowing that, wherever it found its way, it was bathed in prayers. With time, the crippling wound of her absence lessened to a dull ache. There were sometimes tears to accompany his praying, sometimes laughter as he talked to the candle as if it were Gyda, regaling the flame with all that had happened since last they’d spoken. 

……………………  
“Pay attention to how I do this, priest,” Lagertha mouthed around his prick, eyes sparkling as she did her best to distract him, despite her words. “I expect you to learn. My husband will demand I share you when he returns.” 

She swallowed him down scarcely after she’d finished speaking, and Athelstan squirmed and hissed and missed the finer nuances of the lesson entirely. 

Ragnar had been gone more than six months now. If he did not return soon, he’d have to winter abroad. Lagertha, stubbornly, had declared Athelstan ‘passable’ at pleasuring her, and declared she’d now teach him what he needed to know for when Ragnar returned. She had fisherman watch the shoreline each day, but so far, no ships had been seen, and none of the traders coming to Kattegat carried word of her husband. 

“He will return before winter,” Lagertha insisted. “Now, pay attention. There’s a spot just below the jaw.” Her fingers trailed down his face to it. “He loves to be bitten there.” She demonstrated, then had Athelstan practice, and practice, until she was satisfied. 

…………………

Winter came and left with no sign of Ragnar. With so many dead from the fever or gone off to war, the winter supplies held strong for the few that remained. Athelstan passed his time working, talking to Gyda, and studying carnal sin with Lagertha. He learned to fuck through four layers of clothing and heavy furs on the bed. Lagertha showed him how he would need to prepare himself for Ragnar’s sex. The thought of that coupling terrified him, both morally and physically, but also left him achingly hard. 

“Don’t be so eager,” Lagertha teased as she pressed fingers inside of him, as she assured him Ragnar would do before he took Athelstan. She loved taking him apart like this, crooking her fingers to make him moan despite himself. “My husband will think I have traded his sweet priest for a whore while he was away.”  
“How could I be eager? I’ve seen the size of him. It won’t fit,” Athelstan panted back. It was an old argument now, worn down into a jest between them. 

“It fits inside me, priest. I’m sure my husband will manage with you. He’s stubborn.” She offered him her neck, and Athelstan kissed the spots his mistress said Ragnar liked best. The brothers that had taught him at the monastery had always said he was a quick study, and it seemed that held true for the worldly as well as for the spiritual. 

……………..

With the spring thaw came word, at last, of Horick’s victory against Borg. 

“Ragnar’s victory,” the villagers whispered.

“My husband will return soon,” Lagertha reassured Athelstan, when the ships failed to appear on their shores in the days following the message. “First, the king will host a feast in his honor and shower him with gifts. Ragnar cannot leave until the celebration ends.”

“Nor would he want to, if they are singing his praises,” the monk added. He had lived in two very different worlds, met many men in various positions of power, but none of them could even cast a shadow on Ragnar Lothbrok’s ego. 

Lagertha snorted at that. “He will stay for the feasting, but do not fear, priest. He knows we sing much sweeter songs in his bed than they will in their halls,” she whispered, teeth nipping his ear as she spoke.  
……………..

Another month passed, then another, and the citizens of Kattegat stopped talking of victory and started watching for the absent warriors whose fields they struggle to tend. Even unfailing Lagertha began to watch the shores, lips pressed tight in a line. More squabbles arose, as they do when more work must be done than those working can possibly hope to finish. The shield-maiden dealt with them, but Athelstan could see her patience wearing thin with each day. He did what he could to ease her burdens, carrying out any order given, and many that were not. Each morning, he woke a little earlier to light Gyda’s candle before starting a day that was even fuller than they day before.

And then, one day, Ragnar’s ship appeared. 

All work ceased immediately, except for the servants of the hall who scrambled to prepare a great feast for the returning warriors. The rest of Kattegat lined the coast, watching as the ships drew nearer.

At first, a giddy joy filled Athelstan. Finally, Ragnar would be here. They would no longer have to stretch themselves thin to hold their village together. Lagertha had her husband back. Athelstan would finally know if all of the outrageous claims she made about her husband’s prowess were truth.

The smile fell away from his face. Would Ragnar be happy to discover that Athelstan had known his wife in his absence? He had invited Athelstan to join his bed, so long ago, it seemed, but for them to have lain together without his permission or his knowledge…

Ragnar had meant to sacrifice Athelstan before. Obviously, his life had little value to his master. Who could be foolish enough to assume that a man would be happy that a man he had tried to kill had taken that man’s place in his own marriage bed?

And then Athelstan realized. Time had dulled the pain of their loss, but Ragnar didn’t yet know. The Viking was sailing home, expecting his faithful wife and gentle daughter to greet him. All other news would pale in comparison. 

The monk felt sick. How would they tell him? How could they relive that terrible loss? He wanted to scramble back to his room, pull out his hidden rosary, and pray.  
Lagertha put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts. She said nothing, but her presence was enough. They had survived everything so far. This reunion would not be easy, but certainly, after the pain had passed, there would be joy as well.

Time seemed to slow as they waited for the ships to reach shore, each moment passing more sluggishly than seemed possible. The other ships reached land, and the men climbed out amid great cheers. Ragnar’s ship, usually the first to land, came last.

Athelstan had almost bitten his lip bloody with nervousness by the time the longship touched land and those inside emerged. He feared and longed for Ragnar.

Beautiful, barbaric Ragnar, who at last appeared, leading by the hand a beautiful woman with an infant cradled in her arms.  
………………..


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the time it has taken me to post this! I have been very busy these last months. I had hoped to finish this before season 2 starts coming out, but that will probably not be the case. From what I have seen from the season 2 trailers, this is going to be wildly AU. But I love me my confused monk Athelstan even more than sexy viking-in-training Athelstan, so I will go forth into the land of canon divergence .
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left me kudos or comments, reminding me that this story exists and that I need to stop being lazy and work on it.

“I must speak with you, Husband,” Lagertha said, not acknowledging the beauty that stood beside Ragnar as the ship finally reached the docks. Athelstan’s mind raced for an explanation for her. Some kinswoman, or a widow he had found in his travels, perhaps. 

Ragnar stepped forward quickly, placing himself between the shield maiden and the strange woman. “And I you.” He started to raise his hands in that supplicating gesture Athelstan had seen him use when he’d snuck ice-cold fingers around Lagertha’s neck to warm them after coming inside for chopping wood. “Let us not be hasty,” he said, in the same tone that he used to persuade the axe out of her hands after such attempts. 

He glanced around, blue eyes darting from person to person. He faltered.

A young man with Bjorn’s haircut pushed past the warrior. Nearly Ragnar’s match in height now, though barely half the girth. “Where is my sister? Why isn’t Gyda here?” he demanded. The body had changed, but not the spirit. 

Athelstan looked away. He couldn’t bear to see the pain he knew would soon be reflected in those blue eyes, not of the father or of the son. 

“I must speak with you, Husband,” Lagertha repeated. 

The stranger started to say something, but Ragnar hushed her. “We will speak in the hall.”

“Come, Bjorn,” Lagertha beckoned. She turned and walked toward the great hall. The two warriors left everything- weapons, treasures, and the strange Madonna and child- and trailed after her. Athelstan didn’t try to follow. It wasn’t his place.

…………………..

In the days of feasting that followed, no one seemed quite sure whether to rejoice or grieve. The returning warriors had all lost loved ones to the fever, and many of Ragnar’s men had fallen in battle during the war. Ragnar’s brother Rollo had betrayed them. Yet they had been victorious in battle and had brought home great plunder to the glory of themselves and their gods. They did not know whether to laugh or cry, but all agreed it was a time to be drunk. Athelstan thought he might be the only soul in Kattegut not trying to render himself insensate with mead. 

Ragnar and Lagertha sat side by side at the high table, Bjorn taking the seat beside his mother rather than by his father. Judging by the tension hanging heavy over the family, they had not spoken about the woman hidden away in the back rooms of the Hall. Until this strange, mournful celebration ended, it seemed there was an agreement not to broach the subject. 

Athelstan stepped over Siggy, sprawled out on the feast room floor, reeking of alcohol. The news of Rollo’s betrayal had snapped that last thread of strength that had kept her aloft since Thyri’s death. There was nothing to be done for her but pray, as far as Athelstan knew. 

While the Norsemen burned animals and poured out mead to honor their dead, the monk crept away to attend a memorial service of his own. 

The first candle he lit, as always, was for Gyda. He prayed to the Virgin Mother to guard her soul and to speak to the Creator on her behalf. A second candle he lit for Thyri, and a third for Siggy in her grief. The priest had never cared for Rollo, but he lit a candle on his behalf all the same. Cain had been cursed for betraying his brother Abel, but perhaps Rollo might still be saved. Athelstan, sinner that he was, didn’t personally mourn his loss, but Siggy did, and Bjorn, and Ragnar. He prayed for his master’s family to find comfort for all the losses they had suffered. 

As he gazed at the flickering lights, he prayed a final prayer, for himself. He called upon the saints for comfort and strength, for wisdom, and forgiveness. He tried to remember what it had felt like, that lifetime ago when he’d lived with his brothers at the monastery. He had been so sure, then, that he could feel a divine presence when he prayed. Here, now, he felt nothing but the stone beneath his aching knees and heard nothing but the echoes of the Viking feast. When he crossed himself, the gesture felt clumsy from disuse. 

Athelstan blew out his candles and knelt in darkness instead.

…………………………  
The baby Ivar was a tiny, boneless thing. Living in a monastery, Athelstan had not interacted with many babies, but the few he’d seen were more…substantial than the one Lady Aslaug carried. The word circulating the hall was that Ragnar’s return had been delayed for so long because the child had been born so weak.   
No one spoke the words, but everyone knew. Ragnar Lothbrok would not delay his homecoming for any child but his own. The child barely ever opened his eyes, but on the rare occurrence, it was Ragnar’s eyes that peeked out of those thin, pale lids. 

On this final day of feasting, Athelstan finally crossed paths with the lady and child. Presumably tired of being trapped in the guest room and ignored, Aslaug had found her way out of the hall. She sat on a rock overlooking the water, swaddled babe suckling at her exposed breast. As Athelstan left the feast to presumably fetch water from the well but actually to seek out solitude, he came upon her.

As he saw her uncovered bosom, he quickly diverted his eyes and recited a silent prayer. “My apologies,” he murmured, turning to continue past her.

“You are Athelstan, I take it?” she asked, not sounding at all bothered by the fact that she’d been happened upon in such a state of undress. But perhaps, if she’d traveled on a ship with Ragnar’s men for weeks, she’d had to get used to such things. Or maybe, seeing as he turned back to her how at ease she and her child both seemed, she found nothing lewd about this act. It was a natural thing, after all, something even the Madonna had done with the infant Jesus. Athelstan felt ashamed that he had thought it a sin.

“I am,” he replied to her. Although it was not wrong for her to care for her child thus, he still did not wish to see her unclothed, and neither could he look into her eyes knowing that she had lain in sin with his Master. Since he could not look at either woman or babe, he instead gazed out at the sea as she had been doing when he’d first passed her. “How did you know?”

He heard her chuckle. “You are rather different from the rest of them,” she explained, presumably indicating the citizens of Norsemen back in the halls. “Ragnar spoke of you.”

‘Before you seduced him, or after?’ an inner voice accused, but Athelstan refused to speak it aloud. It was not his place to cast judgment, especially not after he had sinned with Lagertha. 

“He spoke to you about a slave he tried to sacrifice to the gods?” he said instead, with more bitterness than he had meant. Still uncharitable, but the accusation was at least not directed toward the lady this time. He did not know her story yet, whether she had seduced Ragnar or he her, but the fact remained that she was not married and Ragnar was. Ragnar should have known better. The jarl would have much to answer to when the feasting ended. 

“He spoke to me about a foreigner he brought into his household, with strange beliefs and a clever tongue. He said he was able to win great wealth and power because of what he learned from you. I do not think he would lightly throw away your life.” No doubt touched her voice. Whatever Ragnar had said to her, it seemed he had instilled faith in this lady. Or maybe she had to believe Ragnar took care of those he brought close, because she was here, in a foreign land, with a child and no friends. If she didn’t believe in Ragnar, she had nothing else to cling to. 

Athelstan turned back to her after a moment of silence. Ivar had finished his meal. She had him held against her shoulder now, caressing his tiny back. 

“I did not think so either, my lady, but he did so.” For the sake of the innocent child, if not for his temptress mother, Athelstan hoped Ragnar did not do the same to Aslaug. 

The monk excused himself and hurried away quickly to find water and silence and escape from the reminder that people seemed to come and go from Ragnar’s favor with alarming speed. 

……………………………..

**Author's Note:**

> I am terrible about updates, but I am hoping to rewatch the series and get the next chapter posted before an embarrassingly long period of time passes. Prod me if I don't.


End file.
